


Recruitment Drive

by mongoose_bite



Series: Dyce the Incredibly Easy Breton [6]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Cock Piercing, Genital Piercing, M/M, Oral Sex, Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mongoose_bite/pseuds/mongoose_bite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yrsarald wants the Dragonborn to join the Stormcloaks. Dyce just wants a taste of that piercing. Surely a compromise can be reached.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recruitment Drive

“ _Fus_ off!” Dyce was on fire today. Literally. He dived into the nearest snow drift and rolled, putting out his smoldering leather for the second time. The dragon recoiled from the shout and took to the air again. Dyce dropped to one knee, lined up his shot, and let his arrow fly.

Thunk! Direct hit. That would be number twenty-six, he thought. The dragon was starting to look more like a hedgehog than a lizard. His arrows seemed to cause it pain, but it didn’t slow it down any. It wheeled around and Dyce dived out of the way as it melted the snow drift into a sizzling puddle of water and a lot of steam.

Maybe he should just try and run for it. A sensible man would have run. Windhelm was somewhere to the south, not that far away. But that dragon had half his stock of arrows in its hide, and he wasn’t sure what the fine was for Leading A Dragon Directly Into Town With Malicious Intent. So he wearily got to his feet and lined up another shot.

The dragon landed again, with a thump that made the ground shake. Dyce drew his blades and tried to circle around the creature; he wanted to stay as far away as possible from those fire-laced jaws.

“For Skyrim!” He started and turned just in time to see a large bearded Nord in fine armour raise a sword over his head and charge past the Breton. He was followed by several more Nords clad in blue, and Dyce recognised them at last.

“I never thought I’d be happy to see Stormcloaks,” he muttered. He’d say this for them; they were gutsy. And they were an excellent distraction. Dyce saw his chance and took it; he darted off to the side and skidded in under the dragon, looking for a soft underbelly. Soft was a relative term, but when he jammed his blade in through the leathery hide the dragon reared, almost tearing the weapon from his hands.

Dyce gritted his teeth and struck again, the dragon’s blood trickling down his wrists and splattering his face. It was roaring and lashing, and he blinked, trying to clear his eyes. Someone grabbed the back of his collar and pulled backwards off his feet, as the dragon collapsed with a groan.

“Are you all right?” Dyce could barely hear the Nord asking him as the dragon’s soul was drawn inexorably into his head. He could hear cheering as well. And he rubbed his temples and waited for the pressure behind his eyes to subside. Learning words was like drinking a pure icy draught of knowledge, but absorbing souls left him feeling slightly hungover.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he managed to say, and the Nord hauled him to his feet, looking him over with concern.

“You’re the Dragonborn, aren’t you?”

“Uh, hello. Please call me Dyce.” He could tell where this was going and he did not like it one bit.

The patrol, four men and one woman, clustered around him and murmured admiringly, patting him on the back and telling him what an honour it was. Their commander looked him over appraisingly.

“You’ve arrived just in time for Skyrim. With that power you can end this war.”

“Well, I’m more of a lover than a fighter.” Dyce grinned, “And, you know, I just half killed a dragon, so I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.”

The officer looked utterly nonplussed for a moment, as Dyce hoped he would. These soldier boys were so amusing. “Look, you’ve probably heard bad things about the Stormcloaks from the Imperials, but Skyrim needs-”

“Have you seen my horse? I left it around here somewhere. It’s white with sort of brownish spots.” Dyce whistled, “Here boy! Heeeere horse! Ah, there he is.” His horse, rightfully stolen, was plodding solemnly back towards its home. He ducked away quite sharpish and started hurrying towards it. “Thank you for your help!” he called over his shoulder. It was only when he was mounted and trotting out of sight that he realised he’d forgotten to collect his arrows from the carcass of the dragon. He sighed, but he wasn’t going back.

***  
Two days later, Dyce was drinking at Candlehearth Hall in Windhelm when the chair next to him scraped back and the leader of the patrol he’d encountered earlier dropped into it.

“The name’s Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced,” he said holding out his hand. “I’m one of the senior Stormcloak officers.”

Dyce didn’t begrudge him his hand, “Why the hell were you leading an ordinary patrol then?”

“I need to get out of the war room sometimes and see the country I’m fighting for. Look, let me buy you a drink I just want to explain-”

“Are you trying to recruit me?”

“I won’t lie to you, I am.”

“Well, I won’t lie to you either:no.” Dyce downed the rest of his mead. “I’m done for the night.”

“Safe travels,” Yrsarald said, as Dyce stood up and stalked off to his room. At least he didn’t try to follow me in, Dyce thought.

He came face to face with him again in the Riften market square, and Dyce just turned on his heel and went back down to the Ratway.

“Is it true you’ve got an admirer?” Brynjolf grinned. “And he’s someone important in the Stormcloaks? Maybe you should join the Legion.”

Dyce groaned and let his head fall onto the table. “It wouldn’t be so bad if he was,” he said. “I know what to do with admirers. Even tedious old soldiers.” Still, it wasn’t the worst idea in the world. Dyce had solved more than one problem by waving his dick at it. He just didn’t think it would work this time.

As luck would have it, he was entirely naked the next time he ran into Officer Thrice-Pierced.

Dyce had tied his horse firmly to a tree and was soaking in the mineral springs south of Windhelm. It was one of his favourite things about Skyrim and he’d been absolutely delighted when he’d discovered the place and the friendly hunters who were froliking there at the time. Today the pools were empty but Dyce didn’t mind, submerging himself up to his nose and dozing in the sun and hot water.

The sound of a jingling harness and the clopping of a horse’s hooves roused him, and his first indignant thought was that someone was trying to steal his horse.

Nope.

There he was, Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced, dusty and sweaty from the road, leaning on his saddle and staring down at him.

Dyce raised his head above the water, “You have got to be kidding me. Can’t a man take a bath in peace?” He started to get out when Yrsarald held up his hand.

“Peace, friend. I swear this is coincidence. I’m here for the same reason as you, nothing more. Can we declare a truce?”

“Oh, very well.” He sank back down into the water.

“You're too kind,” he murmured with gentle sarcasm.

Dyce watched Yrsarald strip off his armour with quick, efficient movements. There was a sprinkling of grey in his beard and in the hair on his chest, but the proof of the Stormcloak’s insistence on patrolling was in the curve of the muscles under his scarred skin, and the warrior’s stance with which he held himself.

And then there was his cock. Dyce had seen plenty, but this was the first one that literally gleamed in the sun. Or rather, the small gold ring hanging from Yrsarald’s foreskin did. The officer was clearly not quite as straight-laced as Dyce had originally thought. A wild youth? A dare? Maybe some sort of bizarre Nordic wedding custom; Dyce did try to avoid entanglements with married people unless receiving an assurance from both spouses that he was welcome.

If he noticed Dyce watching him, Yrsarald made no mention of it, carefully stacking his armour in a pile and wading into the spring with a sigh of relief. “I swear this is the only reason I volunteer to visit Riften,” he said.

“You don’t like it?”

“Too many shady customers, I’m always surprised when I leave with my coin purse intact.” He sank down into the water, a polite distance from Dyce but close enough for conversation. He closed his eyes for a while and then opened them, “I wasn’t looking for you, I swear.”

“All right, I believe you. It would be nice if the truce was extended indefinitely.”

“I’m afraid my duty to the cause most certainly encompasses trying to persuade the Dragonborn to join us.”

It was only hours later, when Dyce was well on his way to Whiterun, that the thought occurred to him: _Thrice_ -Pierced. But he’d seen him naked. What had he missed?

***  
It nagged at him for the best part of a week. Oh, not all the time, just at odd moments he’d remember the gold gleaming in the sun and his curiosity would return. Ultimately, he supposed, there was no reason why he couldn’t just go and ask him. If there was one thing he was sure Yrsarald wanted to do, it was talk to him.

Often, the best way of getting what you wanted was simply to ask for it. Dyce went to Windhelm.

The security in the Palace of Kings was very tight indeed. Dyce caught a glimpse of Ulfric holding court with various petitioners and Stormcloaks, but was not allowed to approach further. He gave Yrsarald’s name several times, managing to keep a straight face, and the man himself gave him a look of complete shock when he was finally ushered into a war room.

A map dotted with flags dominated a large table, and weapons and animal heads decorated the walls.

Ysarald looked up from his contemplation of the map and walked over extending his hand, “Dyce. You are the last person I expected to see here.”

“Yes, well, I’m not going to stay long,” he shook his hand. “Frankly, I just have a question for you that’s been gnawing at me.”

“If I answer it, will you listen to what I have to say?”

“Well, I suppose that’s fair. And I’m guaranteed an answer that way.”

“All right then, ask.”

“Where are the other two?”

“What? Other two what?”

“You know,” Dyce flicked his gaze downward. “I saw one at the springs, but your name implies there’s three. Where are the other two?”

Yrsarald nearly choked on his next breath. “You really are...not quite as the songs portray you.” He looked away and then back at Dyce, “They’re on the underside.”

Dyce looked thoughtful, “So there are three. Any chance I could get a look at them?” He said it as a joke, but hey, if he avoided a lecture on the Stormcloaks in the process so much the better. He expected Yrsarald would just splutter at him again, however.

Instead he turned away and paced around the room, and then back to Dyce again. He looked worried. “Are you sure? I mean, me?”

Dyce grinned, “I don’t see anyone else named after their dick around here.”

“I’m not! That is, it’s not quite like that.” He hid his face in his palm, but he was looking at Dyce from between his fingers. He cleared his throat, “Anyway, I have uh, answered your question, so now it’s your turn.”

“I keep my promises,” Dyce said. “And you have been a good sport about it all.”

“Right, well,” he trailed off.

Dyce chuckled, “You seem a bit distracted. We could leave it for later, if you’d like.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, and launched into his pitch. “I don’t know how much you know of politics, or if you’re a religious man, but Skyrim has sacrificed, for years, her best sons and daughters to the causes of the Empire- what are you doing?”

Dyce was drifting closer, and he settled his hands on Yrsarald’s hips. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m listening.” He dropped to his knees in front of the Stormcloak, baring his teeth in a cheeky grin.

To his surprise, the speech continued. “So many died in the Great War, and now the Empire carries out the instructions of the, uh.” Dyce was sliding his hand up Yrsarald’s leg, under the leather that hung from his waist. “The Thalmor! Just think for a moment how that disrespects the memories of all those who died. Can you blame us for being angry, for demanding justice?”

His voice only hitched a little when Dyce brushed his fingers over the bulge in his smalls and Dyce was impressed by his restraint. If he could get him to unwind a little he’d be a beast, he suspected.

“Are you paying attention?” Yrsarald asked.

“Demanding justice from the Thalmor, yes I am paying close attention.” Dyce fumbled with the unfamiliar armour, but he was bound and determined to get a closer look at Yrsarald’s cock, and Dyce usually got what he wanted.

“It’s not enough that they take our lives; now they take our gods as well. Talos, oh, _Talos_...”

He was half hard, and his cock now revealed what it had originally hidden; two barbells through the underside close to the head, also gold. Dyce’s mouth was watering.

Yrsarald hummed as Dyce took him in hand, running his fingers reverently over the jewelery. And then Dyce leaned forward and kissed them, giving each a careful, gentle suck, one eye on Yrsarald’s face, trying to work out what it did for him. A lot, apparently, because he was almost as hard in Dyce’s mouth as the metal.

“We need, ah,” Yrsarald closed his eyes. “Your help, please.”

“Whatever you say,” Dyce murmured and took him in deeper, feeling the metal click against his teeth and tonguing the barbells. Yrsarald tried a couple of times to continue his speech, and then Dyce had to drop his jaw quick so as not to snag him as he grabbed a handful of the Breton’s hair and hauled him to his feet.

“Enough!” Before Dyce had a chance to protest or apologise, Yrsarald bent down, wrapped his arms around his waist and heaved him up over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Dyce laughed in sheer surprise, and wondered if they were going for a stroll through the throne room; that would be a memory to _treasure_.

They didn’t go through the throne room. With Dyce’s hands on his arse and Dyce’s dick pressed against his shoulder, Yrsarald marched upstairs, kicked the door open and walked them down a corridor to a bedroom. Dyce was not a large man but he wasn’t a lightweight either; he was solid and sinewy, and when Yrsarald put him back on his feet, the Nord knuckled at his back and winced.

“I’m too old for this nonsense,” he said.

“It was uh, certainly unexpected and I’m not an easy man to surprise,” Dyce said. “Now where were we?”

Dyce stepped in to start undoing Yrsarald’s armour when the Stormcloak wrapped his arms around him, and squeezed him against his chest. When Dyce looked up inquiringly Yrsarald took the opportunity to kiss him, almost hesitantly, as if he was worried Dyce would be offended. This was a test?

Dyce smiled and kissed him back, and they stood like that for a long time. And then the armour started coming off, but not hurriedly. Yrsarald seemed bound and determined to take his time, and Dyce wasn’t going anywhere. He hadn’t expected anything quite this thorough, and he started getting to know Yrsarald’s scars, as they each came into view. Eventually they were naked and they stumbled back onto the bed, Yrsarald nipping and licking at Dyce’s neck. Dyce tilted his head back, and watched motes of dust float in the the stripes of sunlight that made their way through the shuttered windows. Other than their movements and breathing, the place was utterly silent.

“What do you want?” Yrsarald asked, looking down at Dyce, his hair brushing the Breton’s temple.

Dyce answered him by hooking a leg over his hip, “I want to know what that gold feels like.”

“Good.”

Dyce laughed. “Just good?”

“Let’s not get our hopes up.” But he was smiling.

“I’ve got some stuff in my pocket which is currently, uh, over there.”

“I’ll take care of it.” And he did, too. When Dyce sat up to help Yrsarald pushed him back gently, and Dyce didn’t argue. Yrsarald kissed him, stroked him, tasted him, not just his cock but his hands, his stomach his chest, his ribs, his hips. It seemed Yrsarald wasn’t just a fighter either. Dyce was breathless but relaxed, hard but not desperate, and when Yrsarald finally eased into him he arched against the furs and groaned.

He shivered as he felt the barbells slide into him, and then out.

“Well?” Yrsarald rumbled.

“Oh, go on,” Dyce drawled. “Do it again.”

And so he did. Many times. Yrsarald fucked slow and thorough, stretched out on top of Dyce, keeping his weight on his arms, apparently inexhaustible. Dyce matched his pace, letting his eyes close and wrapping his arms around Yrsarald’s neck. Sublime and yet strange, Dyce sensed that he was not really the intended recipient of the attention he was getting, that the passion that ever more frequently cause Yrsarald to lose his pace and grip him harder, was detached somehow.

But damn if it didn’t feel good. Dyce was on the edge of asking Yrsarald to go faster, to drive him over the edge when Yrsarald _was_ going faster, those powerful arms either side of Dyce’s head were starting to shake with the strain. Dyce’s cock was trapped against Yrsarald’s stomach, but thanks to the cock in his arse and those little gold treasures it was enough. He bucked his hips up and gasped, coming hard and luxuriously long. Yrsarald lasted longer, and Dyce murmured encouragement, hanging on for dear life until the Stormcloak worked himself faster and Dyce bit down on his own lip and braced himself. Yrsarald cried for Talos when he spent himself, and collapsed in a shuddering heap, stroking Dyce’s hair.

They lay next to each other, and Yrsarald cautiously touched Dyce’s arm. Dyce smiled indulgently and rolled over so they were pressed against each other and let Yrsarald hug him. He looked so much younger when he smiled like that. Yrsarald kissed him like a lover, not a near-stranger, and Dyce didn’t mind, kissed him back, but he had to know.

“So, who is it you’re missing?” he said at last.

Ysarald was quiet for a time, staring at the opposite wall. “I was married,” he said eventually. “I think he would have liked you, well, Talos, not under _these_ circumstances; he was possessive. He gave me the name, but never told anyone else what it meant. We fought together, side by side, for so long.”

“The elves killed him, but this isn’t about revenge. That was war, it happens. But what he was fighting for; are we just going to let them take it away? Ulfric is our only hope, and my job is to convince people like him to take up arms against other people also like him.” He let his head fall back against the end of the bed. “I just want the war to end.”

“And you think I can do that.”

Ysarald looked surprised, as if he’d just noticed who he was talking to. “I, well, it’s my job to acquire resources. I don’t know. I don’t want to send you off to die either. I haven’t thought about Yolwulf in a long time; I try to keep myself busy.”

Dyce shook his head, “If that’s you out of practice, he was a lucky man.”

“You are kind,” Ysarald said slowly. “I can see why you’d rather avoid the war.”

“I’m not that kind, I’m just a sucker for romantics. Are you serious about ending the war?”

“Of course.”

Dyce heaved a sigh, “Next time I’m in town, get me an audience with Ulfric. I make no promises. If I don’t like him, I may just join the Legion and end your war from the other side.” He looked Ysarald in the eye.

“And there’s the dragon,” he said slowly. “I understand.”

Silence fell for a few moments.

“You know, if you wanted to stay a bit longer, you’re welcome,” Ysarald said.

“I wasn’t planning on leaving until tomorrow, but don’t you have things to do?” Dyce asked, amused.

“I’ll think of some excuse.”

Dyce smiled and stretched. For all this talk of war, the room was peaceful.


End file.
